


Uniformed Services

by myownspecialself



Category: Smallville
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Established Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-16
Updated: 2003-08-16
Packaged: 2017-11-01 07:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/353687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myownspecialself/pseuds/myownspecialself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's just something about a man in uniform. Especially if it's Whitney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uniformed Services

**Author's Note:**

> Written for The Iconography Challenge presented by Foreversmitten and Lifeinwords. You can find the details of the challenge at <http://hardtoexplain.midnightradio.com/iconography.html>

## Uniformed Services

by Myownspecialself

<http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=mosself>

* * *

* * *

My icon: <http://iconography.midnightradio.com/mosself.jpg>

Thanks to Philtre and Sugarrush for the beta, and to Edgecity for help and for audiencing. Thanks also to Kelex, Adamlizz, and Rontgenkatze for the discussion of concepts and action. And very special thanks to Mecurtin for naming this puppy. 

* * *

"*In the locust wind comes a rattle and hum;   
Jacob wrestled the angel, and the angel was overcome*."  
~U2: Bullet the Blue Sky

* * *

A wolf-whistle shredded the night air just as he reached the top of the stairs. He turned and saw his thirty-something neighbor standing in a doorway at the end of the hall, an appreciative expression on his face. 

"A Marine in full uniform." The tone was flirty. Jubilant. The neighbor ran his eyes over the dress-blues, the medals, and the white gloves. "What's the occasion?" Smiling eyes traveled up to the white, visored service hat on his head. 

"Career night at the local high school." His knee had started to throb, so he rested one hand on the wood post at the top of the stairs and stretched out his left leg. "Some of the kids don't want to think about college just yet." He shook the extended leg so that the fabric flapped gently. "The principal asked me to give a talk about what else they can do after graduation." 

"If all soldier boys were blond and pretty like you and had nice, big swords," the neighbor wiggled suggestive eyebrows at the long scabbard at Whitney's side, "every gay guy would volunteer for the armed forces. Enlist for life." 

Whitney chuckled at the jest and raised a hand in farewell when the neighbor waved once before withdrawing into his apartment. Turning to his own door, he was about to insert the key when he heard a faint thump come from inside. In one fluid motion, he thrust the key into the lock, flung open the door, rushed inside, and-- 

He couldn't see. 

In the second it took for him to understand that his hat had been tilted forward so that the visor was pushed over his eyes, the door slammed shut. A moment later, a pair of strong hands tried to pin his arms behind his back and a foot lashed out to trip him. 

As he started to fall, Whitney twisted sharply and managed to throw himself back. The back of his head banged into the lower half of his assailant's face and he heard a yelp. He let himself fall back and, snaring the other man's leg with a foot, ended up on the floor-- on top of his attacker-- with a thud that sent his hat flying. 

Each man rolled in an opposite direction. Both staggered to their feet. Whitney had just enough time to note that the intruder was a young man, and then the latter whirled around and made it to the doorway of the bedroom. Blood pounded in his head as he leaped after the intruder and managed to grab a leg in a flying tackle. 

The intruder grunted a protest as he slammed into the floor, and then cried out when Whitney dug a knee into the small of his back. He cried out a second time when Whitney shoved his face into the wooden floor. 

"What the hell do you think you were doing?" Whitney snarled as his hand flew to his waist and reached for the scabbard. He leaped to his feet and drew the sword, while the intruder rolled over to look up at him. 

"What do you think?" The voice was choked, but the eyes twinkled insolently and a faint smirk crossed the intruder's lips. 

"News flash, asshole: never fuck with a Marine and his dress uniform." He glanced through the doorway and saw his cap on the floor of the foyer. "Especially," he nudged a boot into the other man's ribs, "his hat." 

Pinning the intruder with an irate glare, Whitney moved to the nightstand and yanked open a drawer. "I'll teach you to mess around with a Marine." Fumbling for the handcuffs he knew were there, he scrutinized the intruder and took in the strong jaw, the short brown hair, and the heavy eyebrows that did nothing to mar the overall handsomeness. 

The other man's smirk became more pronounced when he saw the handcuffs. He didn't answer. 

"You think this is funny?" Whitney tossed a glance at the window but saw no signs of breaking in. "Did you pick the lock?" 

"You ask a lot of questions." The other man started to sit up. His eyes bored into Whitney. 

"Don't move." He pointed the sword at the intruder's chest. "Put these on your ankles." He dropped the handcuffs at the other man's feet. "Now." 

"Oh for Christ's sake," the intruder snorted as he took the cuffs and snapped one shut around an ankle. "A citizen's arrest?" 

"The other leg." Whitney clenched his teeth and touched the tip of the sword to a spot on the side of the intruder's well-formed neck. He waited a few seconds and then drew back the blade-point when he heard the click of the metal around the second ankle. 

"Lie down." He watched the other man slowly return himself to the floor until he lay once again in a supine position. He noticed how the expectant eyes never left his face. 

"Is this really the way you want to do this?" 

"Shut up." Never losing sight of his captive, Whitney fumbled in the drawer and brought out a second pair of cuffs. "Roll over now." He waited until the intruder was face down. "Hands behind you." 

He placed the sword on the floor out of the intruder's line of sight and bent down to plant a rude knee in the small of the back. He didn't notice that the intruder now obediently held his hands behind his back, offering no resistance, and in fact, seemed to wait patiently for the handcuffs to close around his wrists. 

As soon as the cuffs snapped shut, Whitney reached for the sword and stood up. He bent over and grabbed a shoulder and heaved his captive onto his back so that his head thudded against the floor. 

He let his eyes wander over the expensive clothes, starting with a short-sleeved shirt cut from thin, expensive material. He stopped short when he caught the bulge in the crotch of the tailored slacks. 

"You sick little fuck," he muttered. "You're actually enjoying this." 

"It's the uniform." A leer accompanied the response. "What's up with that, anyway? Halloween isn't for another six months or so." 

"Shut up." Whitney lunged forward and seized the front of the intruder's shirt and hauled him up. The shirt ripped slightly. He swung the other man around and onto the bed, and another ripping sound told him that the shirt wouldn't take much punishment. 

"Hey." A weak protest. Muffled, because the other man was now face down on the bed. "That's my favorite shirt" 

"Too bad," Whitney hissed into the other man's ear. "Serves you right for trying to catch me by surprise." He rolled the man over so that he was face up. "Anyway, your shirt just gets in the way." 

He inserted the blade under the intruder's shirt, and he felt a surge of power when the hazel eyes widened. Keeping the blade away from his captive's chest, he pierced the fabric with the sword tip and then slid the blade upward and outward to slice through the fabric. He repeated this several times and then stepped back to admire his handiwork before pulling the wide strips of cloth off the other man's torso. 

"Huh." He grinned at the smooth skin that covered well-defined muscles and watched how the heavy breathing made the broad chest rise and fall. He moved the tip of the sword to one nipple and pushed gently. 

"Ow." The intruder's eyes betrayed something akin to fear. 

Whitney looked and saw that there was no blood. _Good_. He didn't like to think that he had lost his touch with a sword. 

He moved the sword-tip to the other nipple and stroked it, trying to imitate the movements of a lover's fingertip. It seemed to work: the nipple peaked and a funny noise escaped the other man's lips. 

Next, he moved the blade of the sword to the crotch, where an obvious bulge indicated the intruder's arousal. He turned the flat of the blade to administer several light slaps to the cloth-covered shaft, which twitched and visibly throbbed in response. 

"Let me go?" The tone of the plea didn't seem sufficiently penitent, and Whitney shook his head. 

"Oh no." He leaned over and heaved his prisoner around onto his stomach. "Not yet." 

"C'mon. Just call the police. Turn me over to them." The voice was once again distant, as the other man tried to talk through a mouthful of bedspread. 

"No way!" Whitney hooted at the outlandish request. "I've barely started with you." He touched the sword point to the small of the back and enjoyed how the muscles twitched as the intruder tensed with fear. 

He had a sudden thought. "But before we continue," he moved into his victim's line of sight and carefully placed the sword on the floor, "I should take this off so it doesn't get dirty." As he fumbled for a moment under his chin and undid the first two buttons, he saw that the other man was all eyes. 

"A Marine's uniform costs good money," Whitney said softly, "and I don't want to ruin mine." His gloved fingers moved down the row of shiny buttons and quickly freed each one. He must have moved more slowly as he unbuttoned the sleeves and slid out of the shirt, because the other man gave what could only be a sigh of impatience. As he placed the shirt carefully over the back of a chair, Whitney couldn't help but chuckle. "You really want this bad, don't you?" 

The intruder didn't reply but stared hungrily at the now-bare torso and, just because he could, Whitney shed his shoes, socks, and pants as slowly as possible. As he folded his pants, he started. There was a long, gray smudge on one leg. "Look at that." He jabbed an angry finger at the stain. "You're going to pay for that." 

The other man twisted his head to look up. Whitney knew that the expression was hopeful rather than fearful, and this made him almost angry. He knew that he had to come up with an appropriate punishment for this transgression against his uniform. 

Now nude, with only the white gloves on his hands, he retrieved the sword from the floor and moved close to the bed. "Seems to me that if I'm naked, you shouldn't be allowed to wear clothes either." He slid the tip of the sword under the waistband and the intruder tensed again. 

"And I really _hate_ these pants. There's something about the fabric that I just don't like." Taking care not to touch the cutting edge to the skin of the back of the leg, he pushed the sword so that it glided farther in under the material. 

He gave a quick thrust, and the sword point popped through the fabric. He yanked upward and outward again, and shredded a pants leg from the hamstring area up to the waist. He had to use both hands and a sawing motion to do battle with the stubborn waistband, but he finally managed to cut through even that. 

"Hey! I needed those pants." The intruder struggled to push himself off the bed, but Whitney slapped a palm on the back of the other man's neck and easily pushed his face into the quilted bedspread. 

"Yeah, so?" He made no attempt at civility. "You should have thought about that before you ruined mine." He bent down to return to his improvised tailoring job. 

He followed the gash in the fabric with the point and extended the rip with one long, fluid motion until he reached the cuff, which he was able to cut with little effort. "The shackles make it hard for me to take your pants off the regular way." He slid a hand from the bare hamstring up to the buttock and squeezed. 

"Oh well." He gave a philosophical shrug, and immediately started the sword's entry underneath the fabric of the other pant leg. 

As he pulled the blade through the fabric to cut the cuff, he noticed that the other man's buttocks were tensing and relaxing. Then he realized that there was a rhythm to the contractions of the ass-cheeks. 

"Are you humping the quilt?" he cried, rolling the intruder onto his back. He stopped short and gawked at the erection that jutted into the air. "You're unbelievably sick. You know that?" 

He rolled the captive back onto his stomach. "I don't recall giving you permission to hump anything." He raised one gloved hand and dealt a glancing blow to one ass-cheek. 

"Ay," protested the other man. 

"Silence." Whitney raised his hand and brought it down hard on the same ass-cheek, hard enough to make his prisoner grunt. "I also don't recall giving you permission to speak." 

Whitney frowned at his gloved hand for a second and then tugged on the white-cloth-covered digits. "There," he said and wiggled his freed fingers in front of the other man's face. "We'll both like this better if it's skin on skin." 

He raised his hand and swung hard-- very hard this time-- and the sharp crack of the blow was much more satisfying. He drew back his hand, now tingling, and savored his victim's moan for a few moments. 

"One more, and then I'll let you rest." He made his voice as soothing as he could, and hoped it lulled his captive into a false sense of security. He swung his hand suddenly and struck the other ass-cheek. 

Judging from his victim's stifled yelp, the sneak attack had been successful. And then he swung again. Hell, why not another? Just because he had said one more slap didn't mean that he couldn't sweeten the deal by following it with a freebie. 

_Because I'm a giver and not a taker_ , he told himself. He swung again and then stood back to admire the pink handprint that glowed on the round, very firm buttock. 

"Okay, on your back again." He grabbed one hard, muscular shoulder and rolled the other man onto his back and gave a low, lewd whistle as the erection bobbed wildly in the air. 

He touched the tip of the sword ever so lightly to the underside of the throbbing cock. 

"That's sharp!" the other man complained. 

"So it is," Whitney replied. "If you don't want me to draw blood next time, you'll behave." He leaned forward until his nose almost touched the other man's. "Got it?" 

"Okay." It was a whisper. Whitney knew that it wasn't fear that choked the intruder's voice, and his hunch was confirmed when he saw the hard cock shiver in anticipation. 

"You twisted bastard," he shook his head. "Sick. Sick. Absolutely sick." He took the dull edge of the blade and ran it up the underside of the cock and watched appreciatively as the erection spasmed once. 

"Oh." It was almost a low wail, and the other man looked at Whitney. "Like that." 

Amused, Whitney shook his head and applied the dull edge of the sword again. He glided it up and then down. And then up again suddenly, which made the intruder gasp. 

"Unbelievable." He ran the dull edge up and down several times more and couldn't help but widen his eyes when a drop of pre-cum glistened in the slit of the cock. "Just look at you," he mumbled. He slid the sword again up and down, trying for deliberate strokes that would provide maximum pleasure. He smiled at the strangled cry that escaped from the other man's lips. 

He increased the rhythm of the blade, stopping occasionally to move the dull edge to the top of the cock and the head, as if he were shaving with a giant razor. The other man soon began to emit hoarse, erratic gasps, and his eyes glazed even as they widened. 

Knowing the moment was almost upon them, Whitney carefully slapped the flat of the blade against the throbbing balls and then gently swatted the hardened shaft. The other man cried out with what was almost a barking sound and, convulsing, arched upward. 

Whitney let the sword fall to the floor with a clatter and leaned forward. He grasped a nipple in each hand and tugged, making the other man arch upward even higher as he let out again that near-bark again while his cock spurted his release. 

Whitney felt the sudden warmth splash on his torso and the smell of just-released sex filled the air. The other man was now moaning softly, rhythmically; then the moans lessened in frequency and intensity, finally trailing off in a sigh. 

Deciding to worry about the bedspread some other time, Whitney lowered himself onto the bed next to his partner and drew a finger through the puddle on the flat navel. "Damn, Lucas... who knew you were such a kinky little slut?" 

The other man wriggled for a moment. "Hey, unlock me?" 

Whitney reached over and opened the nightstand drawer. He brought out a small key. He turned his partner on his side, felt for the lock of the handcuffs and inserted the key. As he took off the cuffs and placed them on the nightstand, he asked, "So want to tell me why you were hiding behind my door?" 

"I was trying to surprise you, dumb-ass. If you look on the dining room table, there's a birthday cake." 

"But my birthday isn't until tomorrow." He moved to the foot of the bed and removed the handcuffs off from his lover's ankles and dropped that pair on the pillow by their heads. He stretched out on the bed and pulled Lucas on top of him. 

"That's why I wanted to do the cake today. It makes it more of a surprise that way." An insolent hand tugged Whitney's cock. "You know, you didn't have to tackle me onto the floor." The other man moved his hand to his side, probed, and then made a face as if he had encountered a bruised rib. "I was only trying to run to your bed. For reasons that should be obvious." 

"You caught me by surprise, Lucas. I was reacting... not thinking." He arched his neck up and gave an earlobe a quick bite. "Serves you right." 

"Mmm," the other man murmured. 

After a moment, Whitney felt strong hands caress his torso and run up his arms. He closed his eyes and felt himself becoming aroused. He barely noticed how his partner seemed to be fumbling for something. Lube, perhaps? 

The clink of metal on metal reached his ears, but, still needing all the touching-- or maybe even a kiss now-- he failed to register the soft click. He felt fingers interlace with those of his right hand for a second and then they slipped down to his wrist. All too late, he understood that the sudden cold touch was the handcuff that snapped shut around his wrist. 

"Hey--" 

"Shh." A masterful hand clamped over Whitney's mouth. "No point in fussing." 

"Let me--" He stopped when he saw malice glint in his lover's eyes. 

"Your turn to shut up," Lucas said. 

He felt a tug on the chain that now secured his right hand to the headboard. Lucas then grabbed his other wrist and snapped the other handcuff around it, before turning to look him in the eye. 

"You know what they say about payback, right? " Lucas bent his head down and nipped Whitney's chest. Hard. 

"Yeah," he gasped. 

"Well, payback is indeed a real bitch." He watched in amazement as Lucas got up from the bed. "And so am I." 

"Hey! Wait!" He flailed his unencumbered legs as Lucas headed for the door to the hallway. 

Lucas stopped and turned. "By the way, happy birthday." He threw Whitney a triumphant sneer. "And don't worry. I promise I'll come back tomorrow." 

* * *


End file.
